


Rekindled

by heavenbows



Series: Never Keep Your Promises; Never Break Your Threats [2]
Category: Fable (Video Games), Fable 2 (Video Game), Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: Actually Reaver doesn't handle any emotions well, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Ending, F/M, Reaver doesn't handle grief well, Reaver is a fucking yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 05:57:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16487120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenbows/pseuds/heavenbows
Summary: Staring into the jaws of a balverine, Sparrow thought her time was up. How lucky, then, that she comes to completely unharmed, her life indebted to Reaver. One might almost call it… miraculous.Now, why is it so quiet?





	Rekindled

**Author's Note:**

> Wow did it really take me five years to get around to writing a sequel to Snuffed Out?

Sparrow woke up, which was pleasant, and she woke up without any pain, which was nothing short of miraculous for a woman whose last memory was of staring into the jaws of a balverine.

 

She also woke up to a decadently-decorated room, on a bed like a cloud, with silken sheets beneath her, enough pillows under her head that it was a wonder she didn’t have a crick in her neck, and nothing between her skin and said silken sheets but a sheer nightgown.

 

Blinking to clear the dregs of sleep from her eyes, Sparrow mentally groped about for an explanation. She didn’t recognise the room she was in, although the swathes of red velvet, antique wood, and boudoir-esque low lighting were clues enough to the owner. Ye-es… yes, she  _ had _ been with Reaver, hadn’t she? Or, more accurately, stalking angrily away from Reaver as she abruptly remembered why she only sometimes tolerated him, angry enough to have reached for clothes as she jumped out of bed but not her weapons. Angry enough to walk towards the forest and then--

 

\--and then, Sparrow supposed, she’d been damned lucky that Reaver couldn’t stand not to have the last word.

 

He was going to be insufferable, she realised with a groan, rolling over to bury her face in one of the dozens of pillows. He had actually, literally, genuinely saved her life. She owed  _ Reaver _ her  _ life _ .

 

A more eloquent woman, Sparrow supposed, would be able to turn that to her advantage and make Reaver embarrassed to have cared enough to play the hero. Maybe she’d have to try her hand at it.

 

Though first… hang about, this wasn’t the room they’d been in earlier, Sparrow realised. Slowly, she raised her head and looked around more carefully, but there was no mistaking it; Reaver had surprised her, actually, by having his Millfields house outfitted in pale colours rather than his trademark red. Probably some symbolic inside joke about now being hailed as a gentleman rather than a pirate.

 

Of course, it was absolutely like Reaver to have multiple bedrooms, and he may well have reverted to his old tastes for the inner rooms, and he wouldn’t have had a potion to hand so maybe he just hadn’t wanted her bleeding on white sheets.

 

“Because Light forbid I ruin his colour scheme,” Sparrow muttered under her breath. She stretched and climbed out of the bed, though it wasn’t as much of a battle as she expected; she really did feel fit as a fiddle. Given that the Balverine had definitely gotten a few good hits in, Reaver must have given her a very powerful healing potion.

 

She really  _ did _ owe him. Damn it, damn it,  _ damn it _ .

 

Having a good idea of how Reaver was going to cash that in, Sparrow debated even bothering getting dressed, but she had her pride. Not to mention that there was only room for  _ one _ exhibitionist in their little affair. Then again, would she have any clothes to wear? It would be just like Reaver to leave her nothing and, in all fairness, it was unlikely the shirt and breeches she’d been wearing had survived the balverine as well as she had.

 

Without much hope, Sparrow investigated the armoire that stood opposite the bed and was pleasantly surprised to see it filled with clothes. Not only that, clothes that looked quite to her tastes, rather than the frilly, skimpy things barely better than underwear that Reaver often tried to foist on her.

 

He really was outdoing himself. Was it possible he actually felt bad about starting the argument in the first place and genuinely wanted to make it up to her? Wonders would never…

 

Wait. Sparrow paused with her hand on a shirt, rubbing the fabric between her fingers; more specifically, over a neat repair of a tear done in red thread. This was  _ hers _ \- actually hers - from the old days, one of the things she’d left in Bloodstone--

 

Dropping the shirt, Sparrow stalked over to the window and pulled back the curtains. The view outside was one of impenetrable darkness and Sparrow’s stomach clenched because whether this was Bloodstone or Millfields something was very wrong if there wasn’t a single light out there.

 

A panic she barely understood gnawing at her stomach, Sparrow pawed at the window until she managed to push it open and stood stock-still as the unmistakable tang of salt air blew in.

 

Why the hell had he brought her to Bloodstone?

 

Sparrow dressed quickly - a fresh shirt and breeches pulled on, boots ignored for now - and left the bedroom to find Reaver. The halls of the manor were eerily quiet and even her own unshod footsteps seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness. Not a rustle, not a whisper, not a snatch of a whistled tune - no indication whatsoever that there was another living being in the house. Where was Reaver’s bevy of servants? Where was  _ Reaver _ ?

 

Another person might have begun calling out, in increasingly frenzied tones, but Sparrow had never been a talker at the best of times and panic clenched her throat until she couldn’t have gotten a word out even if she wanted to. Besides, it felt... almost like she was in some sort of bizarre fairytale. As if everything could still be alright if she just believed; if she didn’t panic and scream and break the scene up,

 

Ridiculous, but she couldn’t help but cling to the thought.

 

The bedrooms she checked were empty and, more tellingly, pristine. Parlours and cabinets and other assorted little rooms filled with velvet chairs and bric-a-brac Sparrow had no name for were likewise untouched.

 

Her first clue was a study that actually looked used; a part-melted candle sat in a candlestick upon the desk, beside an empty bottle and an overturned chalice. The dregs of wine that had spilled from the chalice had soaked into an open book.

 

No, not a book, Sparrow realised as she approached the desk and saw a quill and inkwell beside it; a diary.

 

Even if she hadn’t been looking for clues to what the hell was going on, it would have taken a stronger woman than Sparrow to resist peeking into Reaver’s inner thoughts. She’d wondered before if he kept a diary - Reaver had always seemed like the sort of man who believed his thoughts should be recorded for posterity - but she’d never found hide nor hair of such a document before.

 

The book was bound in dyed red calfskin, the pages within a creamy buttermilk. About two-thirds of the volume had been filled, and Sparrow would have flicked through the entries if the open page hadn’t been so telling alone.

 

The entry was stained by the wine that had spilled upon it, but Sparrow could still make out a few sentences at the bottom, penned in a spidery, elaborate hand that was unmistakably Reaver’s.

 

_ Hers is among them, but he can do nothing to stop it. What a weak, despicable man he is. _

 

_ But I am not he. I am Reaver, and I will sleep much better after this chalice of wine _ .

 

The hairs on the back of Sparrow’s neck prickled.  _ Hers is among them _ . What did that  _ mean _ ? She peered at the cramped writing above, but the wine must have fallen while the ink was still fresh and it was hopelessly muddled.

 

_ But I am not he _ . He…?

 

Light and Dark, she had to find Reaver and shake some sense out of him.

 

*

 

She eventually found him in a parlour at the opposite end of the manor, which should have been telling in itself; under normal circumstances, he would have wanted to know as soon as she was awake so he could gloat and proceed to have his way with her.

 

Reaver was slumped in a winged armchair by the dying fire, the low light and high sides of the chair casting so dark a shadow across his face that Sparrow struggled to see if he was awake. An overturned decanter sat by his feet, whatever liquor it had contained now merely a stain on the carpet, and no glass in sight.

 

_ And I will sleep much better after this chalice of wine _ .

 

That was the first thing that gave her pause. Reaver prided himself on being a man of great refinement. Sparrow had never seen him drink straight from a bottle for as long as she’d known him. It would be uncouth.

 

Stepping softly did not come naturally to her - she had more in common with Hannah than a footpad, storming ahead rather than creeping - but Sparrow did her best to moderate her footsteps. The heavy pile of the burgundy carpet helped and so Sparrow was halfway towards Reaver, close enough to be illuminated by the small amount of light the fire still cast out, when Reaver suddenly started in his chair.

 

He lurched forward, as if physically fighting off a bad dream (and oh, how well she knew he was troubled by those), hands clawing at the arms of the chair and his face thrust forwards into shocking relief.

 

Reaver was unshaven, sickly pale and clammy-looking; his eyes were more red than white. He looked a wreck and Sparrow was shocked enough that she automatically took a half-step backwards, a hundred questions rushing to the tip of her tongue. Never,  _ never _ , had she seen Reaver like this. Even when he drank himself into a stupor, he shook it off easily enough with only mussed hair to worry him.

 

Now he looked - well, if not at death’s door, then certainly on his estate.

 

“You--!” he sputtered, wild-eyed, and Sparrow suddenly wondered if he even  _ recognised _ her. More than once he’d woken her in the night tossing and turning and calling out a name that wasn’t hers in truly wretched tones, though any attempt to speak of it during daylight hours brought Reaver the closest to killing her that Sparrow had ever seen. Was he drunk enough to have taken her for that woman?

 

“Reaver, it’s Sparrow,” she said gently, holding her palms up in what she hoped was a sufficiently placating gesture. “It’s just Sparrow.”

 

“Sparrow.” Reaver fell back, a thread of noise escaping him - was it a laugh, a sigh, or a muffled sob? Sparrow couldn’t tell. “Yes, I… I’m well aware. I might be over two hundred years old, dearest, but I’m not in my dotage. Of course you’re Sparrow.”

 

Reaver pushed himself out of his chair, but his footing was unsteady and he made two steps before stumbling. Sparrow darted forwards to catch him and, to her surprise, he clung to her as if to a lifeline, his face tucked against her neck as he breathed deeply, one hand curling into her hair. He smelled of alcohol and stale sweat… what was  _ wrong _ with him? Sparrow had never known Reaver be so poorly groomed. It didn’t bother her, having spent so much of her life in situations where personal hygiene was a flexible concept, but the idea that this was  _ Reaver _ was downright disturbing.

 

Sparrow found herself shushing him like he was little Rosie, easing him back into his chair, and he didn’t stop her even as he muttered that he wasn’t a child, either.

 

“Well, you might not be a child  _ or _ an old man, but you clearly can’t stand,” Sparrow replied firmly. She sat back on her haunches once she was sure Reaver wasn’t going to fall out of his seat and watched him. “Reaver, what the hell is going on?”

 

“What, is a man not entitled to live up to his notorious reputation as a reveller in debauchery from time to time?” Reaver demanded. He was holding himself more rigidly now, but his gaze still wasn’t entirely focused and there was an occasional slur to his words; still drunk, then.

 

“This doesn’t look like your idea of a party,” Sparrow remarked dryly. “You’ve still got your trousers on, for one thing.”

 

A snatch of laughter escaped Reaver at that and Sparrow relaxed slightly; it was the most himself he’d sounded so far, even if it was just for a second.

 

“A situation I’m sure we can remedy,” Reaver said conversationally, his trademark smirk twitching at his lips. After a moment, he reached out and cupped Sparrow’s cheek, the smirk melting away and leaving him  suddenly looking almost -  _ vulnerable _ . “It  _ is _ you, isn’t it, Sparrow? I’m not dreaming, am I?”

 

“It’s me,” Sparrow reassured him, dismissing the tart responses that automatically came to mind when she was dealing with Reaver. Something was very,  _ very _ wrong here, and as much as she hated to admit it, the sooner Reaver was back to normal, the sooner she’d feel able to figure out what that something was. Gently, she laid her hand over Reaver’s. “Promise.”

 

“Of course, a dream wouldn’t be like -  _ this _ ,” he muttered, and then shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs. “Now, where were we…?”

 

But Sparrow wasn’t going to be drawn back to bed; now that Reaver seemed ready to speak sense, there were some questions she wanted answering first.

 

“I was about to ask you what the hell we’re doing in Bloodstone,” she replied, striving to keep her voice even. You never knew, there might actually be a reasonable explanation...

 

Judging by the way Reaver tensed - no matter how quickly he recovered, Sparrow noticed - that seemed unlikely.

 

“Bloodstone? Oh, that…” _ Come on, Reaver _ , Sparrow silently urged him, _ even drunk, you’re normally quicker than this _ .  “That is merely… a courtesy, sweeting. It wouldn’t do for your subjects to know their queen is the sort of woman who storms off into dangerous forests in the midst of a lovers’ tiff, would it? Of course,  _ I _ would never draw a negative conclusion, but to others it casts a mark over your level-headedness--”

 

“ _ Reaver _ .” Sparrow got to her feet, folding her arms across her chest as she levelled a glare at him. “For fuck’s sake. Cut the bullshit.”

 

“Crude as always,” Reaver sniffed, remaining - probably wisely - in his chair. He didn’t look unduly worried; he probably still thought he could salvage this… whatever  _ this  _ was… with his tongue, one way or another. “Why do you assume I am lying?”

 

Why  _ did _ she? Sparrow knew in her gut that something was wrong, but she’d never been good at vocalising her intuition.

 

“You obviously got me a healing potion,” she said slowly, feeling out her logic. “But - it was bad, I remember that much. I doubt I would have lasted ‘til Bloodstone, there’s no  _ reason _ you would have waited until Bloodstone, but if you had one to hand I’d have come round before now. And there were no other houses close to yours, close to the forest, so nobody would have seen us anyway…”

 

_ There’s only one thing he can’t do without in Bloodstone _ , hissed a voice in Sparrow’s mind that she attributed to her good sense.

 

But he hadn’t used her up again - she’d seen her reflection first in the window pane in her room, and then in mirrors that crowded the walls of the hallways.

 

Reaver was still so very, very still.

 

_ What a weak, despicable man he is. _

 

A man waiting for the axe to fall.

 

_ But I am not he. _

 

Light and Dark…

 

_ I am Reaver _ .

 

Sparrow closed her eyes and shook her head in a rapid, jerking motion. She felt sick.

 

“Tell me it’s not true,” she choked out. “You must know what I’m thinking. Tell me I’m a damned fool, Reaver. Tell me I’m wrong.”

 

Even a lie would do, in this moment. She knew in her heart, in her gut, it would be a lie, she  _ knew _ \- but she needed to hear it.

 

Of course, Reaver had never been reliable.

 

“It… there was... Well. You’re an expensive woman, Sparrow.” Reaver’s laughter was as stark and humorless as the grave. “They wanted more, more than I’d bargained more,  _ budgeted _ for. A village will do for a common poacher, dearheart-mine, but a  _ queen _ commands a rather higher price… You wouldn’t expect to buy a palace for the same price as a hovel, would you?”

 

“You--” Sparrow cut herself off, clamping a hand over her mouth before she really was sick.

 

“Of course, those fellows don’t tend to give the bill upfront, you understand,” continued Reaver, in the desperately casual tone of a man who was trying to hold back the brink of despair with only his own two hands. Sparrow risked a look at him and his face was terrifyingly earnest, and she wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than the horror sparking behind his eyes. “I learned that the hard way, but the lesson didn’t stick… Don’t ever make a reckless bargain, Sparrow, will you?”

 

“ _ What have you  _ **_done_ ** ,  _ Reaver? _ ” she hissed, because if he wasn’t going to give her the lie she wanted, he would damn well have the balls to tell her the truth.

 

When he did not immediately reply, she stalked back and leaned over him, hands resting on the arms of the chair and trapping him there. If there was any credit in the world to give him, he didn’t flinch away from her.

 

“What have you  _ done _ ?”

 

“I did  _ tell  _ you,” he replied, a touch peevishly. “You were so very inconsiderately bleeding out all over the ground, but I did think you’d pay attention when I said I’d sell your worthless soul to the Shadow Court.”

 

Her legs buckled. You’d think a queen would have more strength in her to ward off a blow that she was expecting, but Sparrow found herself as weak-kneed as a milkmaid. This time, Reaver caught her, his hands curling around her forearms and steadying her. He was still watching her with an awful expectation, as if he thought she was just a step away from understanding what he was telling her.

 

“I wasn’t ready for you to die,” he said simply. “So you can laugh at me if you like, love, for getting attached.”

 

Sparrow stared at him, aghast, as he pulled her to straddle his lap and stroked her cheek again with a tenderness that sickened her.

 

“Yes, I know, you’re terribly upset - and I’ll admit it, Sparrow, it was… a little more than I expected, myself - but buck up, eh? It’s just the two of us now, you really can’t expect to stay angry forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not totally happy with this, but it's been sitting 90% finished in my google docs for months if not years and people are still interested in the first installment so... here it is.
> 
> If you enjoy reading my work, please consider checking out ko-fi.com/heavenbows.


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